“It’s just a clock.” Mercy gave him a baffled look.
“Connant’s clock.” Chris stared at them. “The hands mark the time of his passing, and there they’ll stay until Whelan’s brought to justice.”
“Time waits for no man,” Rob said.
“Time might not, but I do. God’s put the means in my hands to capture Connant’s murderer. I’ll sit and wait. The rest of you, out of here. I’ll not have you in danger.”
“Oh, we’re safer if we’re all together.” Carmen smiled. “Don’t you think so, Mercy?”
“Absolutely. Why, if you are at your house and I’m at mine, then Duncan’s in his shop and Rob is in the clinic, Whelan might sneak up on any or all of us. There’s strength in numbers.”
“You have a point.” Chris paused a moment. He knew he had their attention. “Carmen, you and Mercy can go stay at her grandda’s or with your sister. Rob, you can go along. Duncan, I’m deputizing you.”
“But—”
“This isna a voting matter. I’m the law, and you’ll obey my edict. Rob, Duncan—your first duty is to your wives and the bairns. You ken ’tis a dangerous trap I’ve set.”
“If it’s dangerous, you can’t put Katie in the middle,” Mercy protested.
“I am in the middle of it.” Katie’s admission surprised him. “Whelan is wicked. From the beginning, I’ve feared for your safety. Please, please go. I can’t bear the thought of you being in danger because of me.”
“Let’s all have a word of prayer before you go,” Duncan said quietly.
They started to join hands, and Rob slid his hands between the bars. “You, too, Katie.”
“It’s kind of you, Rob, but I don’t belong.”
Carmen opened her mouth to protest, but Duncan shook his head.
Chris joined them, but it felt wrong. He felt like an outsider in his own family, and they’d wanted to include his enemy’s sister.
Chapter 10
Having slept on hard pallets most of her life, Wren decided sleep would be a refuge. She curled up with her back to Christopher and huddled beneath the summer-weight quilt Carmen brought her. All evening long, men came and left. They’d spoken in low murmurs and cast odd looks at her.
Lord, I don’t know what to do. Everything is so mixed up. Only You can untie all of these tangled threads. Please, Father, keep each of my new friends safe. Don’t allow harm to come to any of them. Set Your angels about them for protection.
My attitude was wrong. Deep in my heart, I knew I should have told Chris the truth a long time ago. He was kinder to me than anyone has ever been, but fear and pride led me to keep my secret. Through it all, I haven’t had faith that You would work things out. I confess that shameful fact and beg Your forgiveness. Be my refuge and strength, Father, I pray. Amen.
“Katie, lass,” Duncan called softly. “Dinna weep.”
She hadn’t realized she’d been crying. She took a few choppy breaths. “I’m sorry. I’m okay.”
“Aye, you’re fine. Chris, I’m rememberin’ that prayer Ma taught us. ‘Now I lay me—’ ”
Chris’s deep voice joined in, “ ‘—down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep.’ ”
“ ‘If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.’ ” Wren said softly, “When I was a little girl, a friend at school taught me that.”
“Ma didna like that last part,” Chris said.
“Nae, she didna. I’m trying to remember. Something about say and day.”
Chris cleared his throat. “ ‘In everything I do or say, I’ll serve my God both night and day.’ ”
“That’s so very dear.” Wren snuggled into the pillow. “You were blessed to have such wonderful parents.”
“Aye, we were.” The brothers spoke the same words at the same time.
The unity they displayed stunned her. What would it be like to have grown up in a home where the parents were godly and love flowed so freely? What would it have been like to have a brother who loved me?
The next morning, the rail station manager showed up with Katie’s belongings. Chris was off somewhere doing something secretive. Leonard from the mercantile had been deputized and left in charge. Uncertain of what to do, he allowed Wren to have her sewing machine in her cell so she wouldn’t be bored.
Old Mr. Rundsdorf came in to pay a call on her. He sat outside her cell and sanded one of his mesquite wood bowls to a smooth finish. “When you get out of there, you can open up a shop and keep treats in the bowl, just as Duncan does.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at the dear old man. His show of support touched her.
“When you open that shop, I’ll be your first customer, too. This shirt you made me—I’ve never had one fit this well.”
After Mr. Rundsdorf left, Leonard allowed her scissors and a bolt of fabric, so she used the benchlike bunk as a cutting table. Desperate to have something to occupy her mind, she determined to make several baby gowns for Mercy.
“Miss Regent, I have some lunch here for you.”
She looked up. “Oh. Thank you.”
Leonard’s ears were bright red. “I’ll have to ask you to go sit on the bunk whilst I open the cell door.”
“Of course.” As he brought in the sandwich and apple, she let out a small laugh. “Somehow, I had the notion that the only meals served in jail consisted of bread and water.”
“We’ll make sure you don’t go hungry.”
Late in the afternoon, Leonard stretched. “You sure have been stitching up a storm. That foot treadle makes for quick seams. Puts the hand-turned wheel models to shame.”
“The stitches are strong and even, too.”
“Never paid much mind to how much work goes into itty-bitty baby gowns. Mercy Gregor’s going to be tickled pink to get those.”
“She’s been a dear friend.” Wren finished one last row of pintucking. “I’d like to hide them until the baby comes. Is there someplace you could put them?”
“I reckon one of the desk drawers will do. Since we don’t have a sheriff, nothing’s in them.”
She handed him the gowns, and Leonard chuckled. “Lookie there. You fancified these everyday ones by stitching colored lines on ’em. The buttons match. You gonna sew like this once you open that shop Mr. Rundsdorf was talking about?”
“I’ll have to see how God works things out.”
“Plenty of folks ’round here are bendin’ God’s ear, telling Him what they think He ought to do.”
“I’ve done my share of that, too.” Wren started cleaning up. “It was foolish of me. I should have done a lot more listening and a lot less talking.”
“Funny,” Christopher said from the doorway. “I’ve been thinking you didn’t do nearly enough talking.”
“Mr. Gregor! Mr. Gregor!” Nestor scrambled through the door.
“Nestor, what’s amiss?”
“José got my shooter and won’t give it back.”
“Hmmm.” Chris turned around and squatted to be at eye level with the boy. Wren watched how he acted as if the boy’s concern was the most important thing in the world. “ ’Tis a pity. A sorrowful pity. Could you be telling me just how José took possession of such a fine treasure?”
“We were shooting marbles. It landed on the line. I say that means I keep it. José says he does.”
“Now that surely does give me pause to think. I’m sure there’s a rule about it, but it’s been a good, long while since I played marbles.”
Nestor nodded. “Yeah. You’re really old.”
To his credit, Chris didn’t laugh or scold. He nodded his head. “Aye. And years of experience have taught me that ’tis important to play by the rules. Mr. Rundsdorf does considerable reading. I’m betting he has a book that has the rules for all sorts of games.”
“You think so?”
“Aye, I do. You and José are good friends. ’Twould be a crying shame to ruin everything o’er a marble—e’en if it is a prized shooter. Why dinna the pair of you agree to fol
low the rule, then seek out what the rule book has to say?”
“That’s fair.”
“Off with you.” Chris rose and sauntered into the jailhouse.
“To my recollection,” Leonard mused, “anything on the line is out.”
“I dinna rightly recall, but they can look up the answer together instead of squabbling. A fight is rarely worth the cost. Best the boys learn it early on.”
He’ll be a spectacular father some day. She sighed. If we’d had the same upbringing, maybe Whelan would have turned out better. Well, it’s too late now.
By the third morning of waiting for Whelan to take the bait, Chris sat down at Connant’s old desk. The rhythmic clatter of Wren’s sewing machine barely even registered any longer. She’d been keeping busy, and that suited him fine. Otherwise, she sang or hummed hymns a good portion of the time. Granted, she had the voice of a songbird, but her selections were intentional—and she hadn’t sung other than when specifically asked when they’d been on the road. Now she sang and hummed constantly. Just about the time she’d finished yet another hymn and he felt certain she was using those sacred tunes just to bolster her proclamations of being a Christian, she fretted that the sleeves on the shirt she was making were a tad long. Then she shifted like the Texas wind and launched into a rendition of a silly ditty he’d overheard children sing, “Do Your Ears Hang Low?”
When night fell and she couldn’t see well enough to sew any longer, the woman would strike up a conversation with whoever happened to be on guard. He’d had to grit his molars at some of the things that came out of her mouth.
At first he thought she was weaving tales to get sympathy. Fanciful tales. Like the one where she’d walk the length of a hitching post while singing to earn a free supper from a diner. With a nickname like Wren, that tale took little imagination to concoct.
When Stu Key’s sleeve popped a button, she stitched it right back in place while Stu kept on his shirt. She offered, saying she had the needle and thread handy. Besides, she’d done that same task a few times when her stepfather couldn’t be bothered to leave the poker table.
Her stepfather might have been a gambler and her brother was a murdering robber, but she was undoubtedly the smoothest manipulator he’d ever seen in action. He’d almost get sucked into believing her tales but at the last moment would remind himself that she’d been able to live a lie for weeks on end without any trouble.
Mrs. Kunstler bustled into the jailhouse. Chris shot to his feet. “Guten Tag, Frau Kunstler.” After greeting her in German, he continued to tell her very politely that because of the safety risk, he wasn’t permitting women in the jail.
“Unser Katie—Sie ist eine Freulein.”
“Yes, I ken Miss Regent is a lass. But she’s also a prisoner.” He fought the urge to sniff the air. The aromas coming from the covered basket Mrs. Kunstler held made his mouth water. No matter—she’d been baking him treats ever since he transported a baby to her cousin’s cousin. Cinnamon. This time, whatever it was, it had cinnamon.
“Katie,” Mrs. Kunstler called. “I baked cinnamon rolls for you.”
What?
“How kind of you! Thank you.” Wren left her sewing machine and approached the bars. “How is Ismelda?”
“Fat.” Mrs. Kunstler laughed. “My grandson should come any day now. The quilt you made for the cradle—she loves it so much, we are piecing one to match for their own bed.”
“Have you seen Mercy? I’m worried she’ll work too much and tire herself out.”
Mrs. Kunstler looked ready to settle in for a nice, long visit. Chris cleared his throat. “Frau Kunstler, mussen Sie gehen.”
She waggled her finger at him and answered in English. “Don’t you tell me I must go. It is bad how you have her in here like a lonely chick in a big coop. My Otto—he is a good man, ja?”
Chris nodded.
“But did you know I had another son? No, you didn’t. I do not speak of him. He shamed us all by coming to town and drinking the beer and whiskey. One day, with a broken bottle, he fought another man. They killed one another. No one talks of this. It was bad, shameful. But does anyone blame Otto? No, because he was not responsible.
“The pastor—when Otto was blaming himself for not being there to stop his brother—the pastor, he came and talked to him. He said in the Bible, you did not see the brother go seek the prodigal son. The bad son—he had to decide by himself to come back. The good boy—it was his job to stay home and be good. It is better that I have one good son than that I lost two bad ones.”
Frau Kunstler mopped her face with a crumpled hankie. “What our Katie’s brother has done—it is sinful. But it is not her fault.” The woman thumped on her ample bosom. “In here, it hurts to know you cannot stop someone you love from doing wrong. Is that not enough? Why do you punish her?”
“Mrs. Kunstler, here.” Wren extended a hankie she’d tatted around the night before. “I’m so sorry about your other son. I’m glad you have Otto. He’s a fine man, and he’s a good husband to Ismelda.”
“Ja.” Mrs. Kunstler accepted the hankie and straightened her shoulders. “I should be cheering you up, but I came and cried.”
“You shared your heart with me. Even though it was a sad memory, you trusted me with it. That means everything to me.”
“Ach!” Mrs. Kunstler kissed her own hand, slid it through the bars, and patted Wren’s cheek. “It is a shame I did not have one more son. I would have him marry you so you could be my daughter.”
As Mrs. Kunstler left, she called over her shoulder, “If soon you are not free, I will bake you a cake with a file in it!”
Chris picked up the basket and headed toward the cell. “Here.”
“Please help yourself.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Watching that won’t make it do anything.”
Wren’s head jerked up at the sound of Rob’s voice, and she almost dropped her cinnamon roll. “The basket is full. Help yourself.”
“I don’t know that I want one out of the basket. That one seems mighty interesting to you.”
She nodded. “It’s special.”
“It’s a roll—just like the others,” Chris muttered.
“Yes, it is,” she agreed.
Chris swiveled around and glowered at her. “Make up your mind. Either it’s special, or it’s like all the others.”
“They’re all special. Mrs. Kunstler made them”—Wren’s voice cracked—“for me.”
Rob regarded her solemnly. “Aye, Katie. She went to the trouble just for you, and ’tis because she cares for you.”
Tears welled up as she nodded.
“Chris, this has gone on long enough. Look at the lass. She’s miserable, locked away in there.”
“I’m not miserable.” Wren sniffled. “St. Paul was content in prison, and I understand why now. He took the time to ponder the things that matter most.”
“Then why—“ Chris started out gruffly.
“—are you crying?” Rob finished.
Wren took an unsteady breath. “Be–cause Duncan pr–prays with me. And—and Mr. Rundsdorf wa–wants to be my first customer. And”—she took a big gulp of air—“Mrs. Kunstler … another son … marry!” To her embarrassment, she dissolved into a sobbing wreck.
Chris clipped out, “Frau Kunstler came by and said she wished she had another son so he could marry Wren.”
“Ahhhh.” Rob stretched out the sound. “Now wasn’t that a grand thing for you to hear? Folks here love you. Aye, they do. You’re just now figuring that out, are you?”
She nodded as her tears dissolved into hiccups.
“Oh, for cryin’ in a bucket. You’d think no people ever said they loved her.”
Wren’s gaze dropped to the cinnamon roll she still held, and she whispered, “They haven’t.”
Chris had to get out of there. Wren had everyone wrapped around her little finger. Her pity-me tales already set his teeth on edge, but this one—it defied any scrap of
truth. “Stay here,” he ordered Rob. “I’m getting some air.”
Sitting around waiting for something to happen was driving Chris daft. After Da lost his arm, Chris knew he had to provide for the family. He hated going down to the mine—the walls always closed in on him—but he’d forced himself to. Rob pestered him about the few occasions when he’d gone to Thurber to give some advice on the mining conditions, but he could have saved his breath. Braver men than he would have to pry bounty from the depths of the earth.
Just sitting in the jailhouse left him restless. Cooped up, playing nursemaid to that woman. Everyone’s mollycoddling her. Have they forgotten Connant? Or the three other men her brother wounded?
I canna fault them. I was taken in by her at first. I e’en brought her here. The most I can do is keep them away.
He scanned the street. A strange horse was hitched outside the mercantile. Actually two. He started striding that direction.
“Ja, Leonard. I’ll tell her you said so.” Mr. Stein came through the door. He unhitched one of those two horses and swung up into the saddle. He rode toward Chris and halted. “Chris Gregor!”
“That’s a fine looking horse you have.”
“I bought him last week. Perhaps it is foolish for an old man to buy a new horse, but I’ve told myself that when my grandson is a little older, he will need a solid workhorse.”
“Peter will be a lucky man when you hand over the reins.” From the corner of his eye, Chris saw a flash. He pulled his pistol as he slapped the horse. “Hee-yaww!” The horse bolted, carrying Mr. Stein to safety.
Two men sauntered down the boardwalk. In the scorching summer weather, they both wore coats. At midday.
Mercy’s grandda halted his horse at the far end of the street. “José! Nestor!” he called. “Come here. I have something to tell you!”
The boys dashed past Chris to relative safety.
One more man rode by.
Four. Four of them. Whelan’s not here yet. Chris scanned the street as he took ground-eating strides cutting across the road diagonally toward the jail.
Jakob Wahl stepped out onto his veranda and shouted, “Everyone! God gave us a little girl!” Jakob and his brother lived in that home. They were both bachelors. They’d come up with that warning call, saying it was the truth. God had sent Katie to them.
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